


A Conversation

by Annabelle_W



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, POV First Person, Sam Winchester-centric, Season/Series 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 09:23:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13633416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annabelle_W/pseuds/Annabelle_W
Summary: Dean catches Sam with a woman.  When he's teasing him about it later, some truths come out.





	A Conversation

I bury myself in Eileen’s gentle curves, savoring the feel of her warm, soft body. She arches beneath me and I gasp. This, I think, this is what I’ve been wanting.  
I hadn’t been surprised when she slipped into my room. When she whispered that she would have come anyway, that she was planning to, that I was not taking advantage of her vulnerability over accidentally killing a human. We’ve been moving in this direction since we met a year ago. Flirting. Skyping as often as possible. Sending each other little hints, tiny innuendos. So, finally, finally, when we once again met in person, everything between us was easy, perfect.  
She’s perfect. Dark hair, full curves. A hunter, so there’s no need for secrecy, no lies, no chance of losing her due to a shocked discovery. She’s fierce, intelligent, loyal, beautiful, passionate. She has the same quirky sense of humor as . . . .  
A sound (an intake of breath, maybe?) has me turning. There he is, staring at me through the partially opened door. Dean. His black tee shirt stretches across his muscular chest. His full, pink lips form a slight O. His green eyes—do they look stricken?  
“Dean,” I whisper, and I come, gushing into her until I collapse, gasping, on top of her.  
*****  
“Aren’t you glad I bought you a new mattress?” Dean smirks as he hands me an already-opened beer.  
“I guess so.” There’s the slightest twinge of hurt in those beautiful eyes, so I quickly add, “I mean, yeah, thanks.”  
He perches on the table, careful to avoid all of the papers, folders, and books I’ve strewn around in the midst of my research. “Never thought you’d be the first to get some in the bunker.” He shakes his head, grinning, before taking a pull of his own beer. I look away from the sight of those lovely lips surrounding the bottle and roll my eyes, giving him the response I know he expects.  
“I was starting to worry about you for a while there, man.” He’s shaking his head, still grinning. “I mean, the last time was, what, that Piper chick from the were-pire hunt?”  
Piper. I hadn’t noticed the waitress at first. Blondes haven’t really been on my radar since, well—I glance at Dean’s short, spiky hair—since my brother’s hair darkened from dirty blond to brown. But she kept making excuses to come to my table, kept leaning forward as she asked if I needed anything so that she could give me an eyeful of her chest. And something about her lean body, golden hair, and flirtatious smile reminded me of twenty-year-old Dean—reminded me of an adolescent fantasy I’d had of taking my brother in the backseat of the Impala. I thought Why not? and asked her what time she got off.  
I smile a little as I remember the sight of her writhing beneath me, flushed and damp and almost as pretty as Dean had been all those years ago.  
All I say is “I get laid more often than you think.”  
He leans forward, apparently intrigued, his flannel stretching taut over his mile-wide shoulders. “When was the last time?” I open my mouth to point out that the last time had been Eileen. He notices and quickly corrects: “I mean, when was the previous time?”  
“Two months ago. Ames. Her name was Michelle.”  
He leans back, considering. “We didn’t have a case in Iowa two months ago.”  
No. We hadn’t.  
Two months ago, Dean came into my room armed with two bottles of scotch and announced he wanted to watch cowboy movies and my tv was the biggest and, anyway, I owed him (for what, I don’t remember). One and a half Clint Eastwood films later, the bottles were empty (mostly drunk by him) and he was passed out on my bed. His dark hair was pressed against my pillow. His eyelashes dark against his skin. His mouth slightly open. His powerful chest rising and falling with deep breaths.  
It was so close to what I’d always wanted and yet so depressingly far.  
I had driven blindly into the night. Driven on and on until I was far from the beautiful temptation of Dean Winchester. Then I had found a bar and gone home with the first attractive woman to glance my way.  
Dean had been too hungover to notice my long absence.  
I only shrug in answer to today’s Dean’s questioning glance.  
“You do that a lot?”  
Every two or three months since the day I started to get over the loss of Jess and realized I was as much in love with my brother as ever.  
Out loud I say, “Sometimes I get lonely.” I shrug again.  
He raises an eyebrow, but he only hops off the table and heads for the kitchen. “I’m getting another beer. Want one?”  
“Sure.”  
*****  
I was twelve. It was a warm, quiet day, so I was sitting on the porch steps of the house we were squatting in and enjoying the sun while reading The Iliad. My social studies teacher had mentioned Homer the previous week and the siege of Troy sounded super cool, so I’d checked out the book from the school library.  
Sixteen-year-old Dean was working on Baby.  
He slid out from under the car, whistling, his tight tee shirt stained with grease.  
A strange warmth spread through my groin. I looked down, shocked. But. I’d read about this. I’d heard Dean talking about this. Only . . . . Shouldn’t I have been thinking about girls when it happened?  
I scrambled into the house.  
“Heya, Sammy. Good book?” Dean walked into the living room an hour later, shirtless, toweling off his wet hair.  
I managed to gasp out “Yeah, yeah it is” as my blood once again rushed south.  
I raced to the bathroom and sat on the lid of the toilet as I struggled to calm my pounding heart. One clear thought emerged from my confusion of lust: I was gay.  
I was gay. This was the reason why I’d always felt strange, wrong, unusual. I was different in a completely normal way. I was gay!—I wasn’t a freak!  
I was normal. I could be normal.  
When teachers began to hint about college, I allowed myself to dream of someday living a normal life. A real job. With a paycheck. A two-story house. Children. A partner. I ignored the fact that the man beside me in all of these fantasies bore a suspicious resemblance to Dean.  
*****  
I was fifteen, sitting in the back of the Impala, on my way to enroll at yet another high school, trying to process the events of the weekend.  
I’d had my first kiss! It was not, as I’d been expecting, a shy, bumbling boy, but a girl. Pretty, mysterious Amy.  
I had spotted her while doing research for Dad and Dean in a public library. Sweet face, long blonde hair, furtive movements. I was immediately fascinated. My heartrate spiked whenever she came near and I had to force myself to focus on the case. I was so focused on her that I even found myself asking Dean for advice about girls. (He had responded with a surprised chuckle and a dig about my being a late bloomer).  
Our kiss was awkward and wet and heavenly. Our parting was bittersweet. She was the daughter of the monster my relatives were hunting, so I knew that odds were I would never see her again.  
That day at school, the girls looked different. Appealing in a way they had never been before. Long hair. Short hair. Tall, short, medium. Thin, pudgy, curvy. Blonde, brunette, Asian, Hispanic, black. They were all so beguiling that I couldn’t keep my eyes off of them. I found myself in a state of permanent half-arousal and, for the first time, I stumbled in my answers in class. For the first time, none of my teachers displayed the expression of pleased surprise I’d grown accustomed to.  
I didn’t care. I was too intrigued by the discovery that I was bisexual.  
But, wait. Shouldn’t the boys have been equally attractive? They weren’t. Not one of them made my head turn. Neither did any of the younger (male) teachers.  
A couple of girls (long hair, round bottoms) were giggling over a magazine. “He is so hot!” one of them sighed. I leaned forward to get a glimpse of this Adonis (and, if I was being honest with myself, to get a whiff of their body wash) to see if I would find him hot, too. Nope. Not remotely. Logically, I could tell that he was a handsome man, but my nether regions were only interested in the teenage girls admiring him.  
Had I changed sexual orientation over night?  
A refrain that I had not heard for three years began to chant softly in my mind: I’m a freak. I’m a freak. I’m a freak.  
I was still reeling from all of these self-revelations when the final bell rang and I stumbled out of the building. Dean was leaning against the Impala, with his arms folded. Black leather jacket. Spiky hair glinting in the sunlight. Bad boy pout.  
My breath caught. My heart stuttered before restarting at a gallop. My palms grew sweaty.  
And the anvil that had been waiting for three years to strike smashed into me.  
I wasn’t gay. I wasn’t bi. I had only ever been attracted to one man. I was a straight guy with passionately incestuous feelings for his big brother.  
I was even more of a freak than I had ever imagined.  
*****  
The funny thing is that Dean is bi. He’s not aware of the fact (I’m pretty sure) but he checks out guys wherever we go. Including me, on occasion. He checks out Castiel so often that I would hate the angel if I didn’t love him so much. He’s like the little brother I always wanted—even though he’s millennia older. I know that this is how Dean feels about him, too, but, well, Cas is a good-looking guy (or his vessel is) and Dean appreciates beauty.  
There was one time when I thought he had figured it out—worried he had acted on it. When he introduced me to Benny, there was so much heat, possessiveness, and affection in his demeaner that I was reaching for my knife before I realized the man was a vampire. But it didn’t take me long to discover that, like with Cas, Dean only saw Benny in a completely platonic light as a friend/brother.  
I still spent the next several months blind with jealousy.  
*****  
Dean comes back into the library carrying to beers. He pops one open and hands it to me. He’s shaking his head, grinning, as he opens his own. “Right when I though I knew everything about you . . . .”  
“Yeah, okay. We’re done talking about my sex life.” I pointedly open the nearest book—a very dry, very detailed MOL tome on werewolves.  
Dean leans against the table. “We could talk about my sex life.”  
As if he’s ever been able to resist bragging about his conquests. I turn a page. “Really not interested.”  
“Afraid you’ll get jealous?” He winks.  
I freeze. Dean has the sexiest wink on the planet. I have never been able to build up an immunity to it.  
Dean’s grin is replaced by a thoughtful expression. He cocks his head, bites his lip, taps his finger on my laptop. He’s studying me like I’m a particularly relevant bit of lore.  
Suddenly, he leans forward and very slowly, very deliberately brushes a strand of hair from my forehead.  
I haven’t recovered from the heady effect of his wink, so I am unable to suppress my shiver, unable to hide my flush, unable to suppress the deepening of my breathing.  
A small smile tugs at his lips as his hand gently dances from my face to my neck. He bends his head until those lips press against mine.  
I stand so abruptly that my chair falls over. Before I can untangle and articulate any of my jumbled thoughts, Dean pulls me down into another kiss. His lips are soft and practiced and . . . and . . . . My jumbled thoughts fly away entirely. I crush his body against mine and kiss him back.  
******  
We’re walking hand in hand down the hallway. Dean pauses near my door and looks up at me, an almost shy expression in his beautiful eyes. “Have you ever . . . ?”  
“Been with a guy?”  
He looks down as he nods.  
“No.”  
A mischievous smile lights up his face. “So, we’re both virgins!”  
I smile back. “I guess we are.”

**Author's Note:**

> I really love Eileen, so I was really angry when the writers killed her off. My headcanon is that she got one night with Sam first.


End file.
